Nothing Else Matters
by HappyChaos3D
Summary: Post S3finale Both Winchesters have returned from the dead, but Sam’s not the one who came back wrong. Dean is broken, perhaps beyond repair and Sam is faced with a choice that echoes their father’s final words: Save him or kill him, nothing else matters.
1. Chapter 1

A/N This fic came to me in a dream and it's very impromptu, so I apologize for any mistakes. I really haven't proofread it at all yet. Honestly, I just had to get it out there while it's still fresh in my mind. Besides, I can't sleep and I'm procrastinating big time from packing (dang I hate moving!). Contains Season 3 finale spoilers and possibly spoilers for any episode prior to it.

Summary: Both Winchesters have returned from the dead, but Sam's not the one who came back wrong. Dean is broken, perhaps beyond repair and Sam is faced with a choice that echoes their father's final words to Dean. Save him or kill him, nothing else matters.

**Nothing Else Matters**

By Deana W.

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**Prologue**

"Sammy? Tell me about mom, I don't remember her."

Sam blinked hard, trying to hold back his tears, not wanting to upset his brother. They were in an old motel on the outskirts of town—it was easier that way, it made for a quick getaway. Sam sat on his bed leaning against the headboard. Dean was leaning weakly against his chest, his head rested on Sam's shoulder. Sam had one arm protectively around his injured brother, and the other was at his side, slightly behind him, completely and purposely hidden from Dean's line of vision.

Dean was slightly drowsy from the painkillers Sam had given him. It was the last of the painkillers, and unfortunately there wasn't enough to knock him out, which wasn't good at all since it seemed to be the only thing capable of putting Dean to sleep. His brother was exhausted, but the moment sleep took hold, the nightmares would come, resulting in sleepless nights for both of them. It would be so much easier if Dean would just go to sleep, but Sam couldn't be so lucky.

"I don't remember her either, but you and dad told me lots of stories about her," Sam offered.

"Like what?" Dean asked faintly, he tilted his head up so he could make eye contact with his brother. Sam smiled tightly, trying to hide his own pain, hardly able to look into Dean's haunted green eyes as they blinked at him, wide and innocent, full of fear and trust. "Tell me Sammy."

Sam thought a moment; "Well uh…" he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, trying to think, hoping that concentrating on something else would ease his anxiety and hide it from Dean. He heard Dean whimper and Sam focused his attention back on his brother, "Hey are you OK?"

He couldn't stand to see his brother hurt, and while the injuries Dean had sustained from the beating he had taken the night before weren't too bad, Dean had a low tolerance for pain ever since he came back. It was ironic, because Sam imagined that compared to the torture Dean endured in Hell, a few cuts and bruises should be nothing. He wished Dean would wear that mask that used to drive Sam crazy, the mask Dean wore when he was hurt and insisted he was fine. Even if it was a lie, Dean saying he was fine would be music to Sam's ears.

"Dean?" he pressed gently when Dean didn't respond.

Dean nodded vaguely, then he shook his head, "My shoulder hurts, everything hurts and… I'm scared Sammy."

"Don't be afraid," Sam soothed, "I'm here."

He relaxed in Sam's loving hold, and nuzzled his cheek against Sam's shoulder. "I know," he murmured with a sigh, then he grimaced, "but I still hurt."

Sam swallowed compulsively, concentrating on keeping his voice steady, "You'll feel better soon," he whispered, "I promise."

He tried not to think of a time when Dean would flinch at Sam's touch like he did right after he came back. Perhaps it was good progress that Dean welcomed the closeness, but he wished it were more like the time when Dean would protest against it. Sam longed to hear Dean's smart mouth, to hear him insist that he's fine and tell Sam that he should stop mother-henning him and use colorful words to say it. If he did that, if he displayed some cockiness and sass, then he would be the Dean he knew and loved, not the empty shell of a man leaning against him, helpless, broken and scared.

"You OK Sammy?" Dean asked, sensing his brother's distress.

Sam flinched slightly, ashamed that Dean noticed, "I'm fine big brother, just a little sad because you're hurt." He spoke gently, and softly, as though speaking to a child and not his big brother. His brother, the man who had raised him, taught him everything he knew about hunting, who protected him, died for him and literally went to Hell and back for him. But his once strong and seemingly invincible brother really was now akin to that of a small child. It seemed wrong speaking to Dean as though he were five, there was a time when Dean would probably punch Sam in the face if he dared speak to him like that. But Sam needed to—sometimes it was the only tone that could keep his mentally unstable brother calm.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry Dean, it's OK," he soothed. "You'll feel better soon. Promise," Sam repeated, subconsciously tightening his grip on the knife in his free hand to keep his hand from shaking. Ruby's knife, in the hand Dean couldn't see. His other hand gently and comfortingly ran down the length of Dean's arm, it helped Dean relax.

Dean smiled up at him, "I know. I trust you. And I know you'll protect me from the monsters."

Sam suddenly laughed frantically. If he didn't, he'd probably burst into tears. "You're right Dean, I won't let the monsters get you."

"And I won't let them get you either because," he paused and closed his eyes, scrunching them in pain, "because that's what we do. We look out for each other, right?"

"Yeah Dean," Sam agreed softly, swallowing a lump in his throat, "We look out for each other."

"Because we're brothers," he added as though that fact was new to him, as though he had forgotten it once and was proud to have finally remembered.

"That's right, brothers," Sam choked back a sob, wondering if somehow Dean knew what he was about to do. He released his grip on Ruby's knife, letting it fall behind him on the mattress and pulled his empty shell of a brother into a gentle embrace, an act that once upon a time Dean would never allow. Now he returned the hug, accepting the comfort, and he looked at Sam with complete trust in his haunted, innocent and broken eyes.

When Sam released his hold on Dean, his hand once again rested slightly behind him and he gently ran his thumb along the mother-of-pearl hilt of Ruby's knife.

Blinking back tears, Sam tried with minimal success to keep his tone light and casual as he said, "Hey, why don't I tell you some stories about mom now, OK?"

Dean nodded and settled against Sam's chest as Sam began to repeat the stories Dean once told him about their mother, all the while gripping Ruby's knife until his palms were sweaty and his knuckles were white.

It would be over soon, he just needed to wait for Bobby's signal. Then it would be over, quick and painless. One swift, deep slice to the throat. Hopefully Dean wouldn't even see it coming. Hopefully he would die without knowing of Sam's betrayal.

TBC

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A/N The basis for this story is very loosely inspired by the last scene of "Of Mice and Men" and an episode of "Dark Angel" (gosh, I haven't seen that show in a very long time!) Neither those nor "Supernatural" belong to me. I just write this for fun.

Also I should probably mention that even though it takes place after "No Rest for the Wicked" it's not related in any way to my other "No Rest" fic, "Shadow of Death". I have it plotted in my head and I doubt it will be very long. And since I know some people like to be warned, I'm still not sure if this will be a deathfic or not, I have ideas for it to go both ways, but I'm very torn on whether I want to go there or not. As always, please review. It makes me very happy.


	2. Chapter 2

Here it is chapter 1 (finally!!) So sorry it took so long I kind of posted the prologue in haste, usually I like to have a story more or less mapped out from start to finish at the very least before I start posting. The prologue was so impromptu that I only had a vague idea of where I wanted to go with it, but I now have a much clearer idea in my head. My other excuse for such tardiness is that I've been suffering from both writer's block, and a finicky computer with even finickier internet.

Thanks to my wonderful reviewers! You are the fuel to my creative fire! I have also heard your pleas to not make this a death fic, so I won't, but that doesn't mean I won't get mighty close. You know what they say, "You only hurt the ones you love" and I love Dean Winchester so uh... yeah, sorry Dean for always wanting to hurt you, and Sam, sorry for overwhelming you with such angst.

**Chapter One**

**six months earlier...**

Exhausted was an understatement when used to describe the way Sam felt. It was pure and seeped deep into his bones. He guessed he had about five or six hours of sleep in the past four days, randomly dispersed in twenty to thirty minute intervals. It was only a matter of time before he crashed.

It was a routine for him.

Run himself into the ground hunting Lilith, crash.

Run himself into the ground hunting ghosts and demons and other supernatural creatures that crossed his path, crash.

Run himself into the ground researching for a way to save his brother's soul from Hell, crash.

When his body couldn't take the fatigue any longer and he did crash, he unwillingly slept for hours on end, and then he'd start the abusive pattern all over again.

Bobby told him he was crazy, that he needed get proper rest or he'd get himself sick or worse, killed, or maybe get someone else killed because sooner or later fatigue was going to make him sloppy when it came to hunting.

But Sam couldn't rest. There was too much to do. There were demons to hunt—especially one in particular—and there were other various spirits and creatures that needed to be stopped, there was a demon war that needed to be fought and most important, there was a soul to save.

Although it seemed the harder he looked for a way to save Dean's soul from an eternity in Hell, the more hopeless it seemed to be. Every time Sam thought he found a lead, every time he thought maybe, just maybe he had Dean's salvation in his grasp, he would harshly discover that he was wrong. He may as well be chasing rainbows.

Every time Sam gave in to exhaustion, his mind would bring him back to that awful night. Sometimes, somewhere between sleep and waking, he could hear his brother scream, crying out in pure, unadulterated agony. Dean's voice broke through his psyche with such clarity it would shock Sam awake and it would often take a minute for his brain to catch up to reality and assure him that it wasn't real. Dean was gone and Sam was alone.

He still remembered with vivid detail the sight of his brother as invisible hellhounds ravaged him, sparing him no mercy. He could still remember the smell of sulfur and blood as Dean's blood splattered the room like a morbid Jackson Pollok painting, the feeling of pure helplessness as Lilith telepathically pinned him to the wall, laughing with childish glee as her demonic pets tore Dean to shreds. He could still taste the salt of his tears as they fell freely while Sam held his dead brother in his arms, searching for life in his dull, unfocused, staring eyes. And god… Dean's screams…the screams that escaped his strong, capable, cocky brother's throat sounded so unnatural and wrong.

Almost two years had passed since that night and Sam still found himself searching. Searching for Lilith, searching for a way to save his brother from Hell. He had promised Dean that night that he wouldn't surrender to the darkness to save Dean, but in the back of his mind it was still an option. But he wouldn't consider it until after he tried every other possible way because if it failed… if it failed then Dean's sacrifice would've been all for naught. He couldn't take that risk. Dean was in Hell to save Sam. Saving Sam, protecting Sam had been all Dean really lived for and ultimately it was what he died for.

Sam would do almost anything to get Dean back, but somewhere in the last year or so, he had come to accept that Dean wasn't going to come back. Dean was gone to him forever. Of course, acceptance didn't mean he was giving up. Sam would never give up no matter how many obstacles he faced. There was no way he'd let his brother rot in Hell. Sure Sam accepted the fact he was gone, never to return but Dean didn't deserve his fate and Sam wouldn't rest until he could find a way to help Dean's soul rest in peace.

And Sam had every intention of continuing his search as he entered the dingy old motel room. One of his contacts had given him a lead via e-mail and Sam wanted to look into it before moving on to his next hunt. That was the way he worked. Hunt, hunt, hunt. Carry on the damn family business, save people, hunt things, seek out Lilith so he could get his revenge, and on down time, between hunting and shit, he'd try and save Dean's soul.

If Sam had his way, his priorities would be the other way around and his entire focus would be on finding ways to save his brother's soul from damnation, and getting his revenge with maybe a few hunts in between. But leads on Lilith were scarce and it seemed that possible leads on saving a soul already damned and in Hell were rarer still. It frustrated the hell out of Sam and sometimes he idly wondered if that was how their dad felt when the Yellow-eyed demon's trail went cold and there were too many other spirits and creatures out there to distract him from his true quest for revenge. Sam just hoped that unlike his father, his quest for revenge and salvation won't take him twenty-three years. At least Sam's quest wouldn't cost him everything he had like it did for John, because the harsh reality of it all was that Sam had nothing left to lose.

He just had to keep moving, keep looking, keep trying. He'll sleep when he's dead.

Unfortunately Sam's body had other ideas and without realizing it, he had fallen asleep on the bed, or more accurately, passed out. He ended up lying awkwardly on his back, still fully clothed and still covered in dirt, and grime and sweat from his last hunt, his booted feet were still on the floor, one arm draped over his eyes, the other dangled over the edge of the bed, his fingers loosely brushing the ancient, worn, olive green shag carpet covering the motel room floor.

If Sam had any control, the little sleep he did get would be dreamless, but he couldn't escape his dreams no matter how hard he tried. His slumber would often reveal to him fragments of his life, of Dean's life, of John's life, and those fragments fit together in Sam's mind like a link of a chain, presenting the path that led Sam to where he was and made him who he was. It was a rocky path, and it made him resent ever having to travel it.

Sam wished he could go back, change his path, his destiny, then maybe he wouldn't be where he was now. Alone. The last surviving Winchester. Teetering on the brink of light and dark, right and wrong, good and evil. Sometimes Sam felt that the only thing keeping him from becoming what he hated most was his brother. His memory. His sacrifice. His strength. Somehow Dean's strength, or the memory of his strength managed to live on after his death and Sam held onto it. Cherished it. Drew from it when Sam felt he couldn't carry on.

As usual, his unscheduled sleep led to dreams he didn't want to experience. He saw Dean. The reason he rarely slept, the reason he wished he couldn't dream when he did. Dean haunted his dreams almost every time he closed his eyes, one way or another.

This unwanted rest was no different, and his mind took him to a distant memory. A happy memory. He and Dean were just hanging out talking about girls while Dean washed the Impala. Sam had just started driving and he was excited about Dean teaching him. There was no sound in his dream, except the sound of the rushing water as Dean rinsed the soap off the sleek vehicle with the garden hose but it didn't really matter what they were saying to one another. There was no color either, but Sam could tell it was a beautiful sunny day and he knew that Dean was wearing a green shirt.

Dean said something funny and Sam watched his younger self and Dean share a laugh. Sam watched silently and couldn't help but smile. But he frowned, knowing deep in his heart that his conscience was going to pervert this memory into something awful. He wanted to wake up to escape the inevitable nightmare and get back to business, but he wanted to stay in this memory and hold onto it before reality found its way in, reminding him of what happened, of what he needed to do.

Sam turned his attention away from the scene playing out before him and he focused on the water as it flowed from the Impala, down the driveway it was parked on, onto the curb and down the drain. He didn't want to watch the scene morph into something macabre as his dreams always managed to do since Dean died. Sam flinched when sound cut through the muted dream and he heard Dean cry out his sheer agony. The water turned to blood, a river of red in his colorless dream. Sam gagged at the smell of the iron in Dean's blood.

Unable to help himself Sam glanced up to see his younger self was gone, and Dean was sprawled on the ground, his body a mass of blood and gore.

Dean's voice pierced through his psyche, shattering the tainted memory into a million pieces.

"_SAM!!!!"_

Sam startled awake. He jumped, shifting from his awkward position before settling into a different one. He could still hear the sound of his name echo through his brain. His groggy, exhausted mind was still in that dark place his dream took him. Blinking he could see behind his eyelids a quick image of his brother in a mass of chains and fire and blood. A new sound was forming over Dean's agonized screams, and Sam, still caught between unconsciousness and awareness couldn't place the steady, monotonous rhythm.

As he tried to shake away the remnants of his dream the new sound invading his awareness became clearer. His phone was ringing.

Suddenly aware of, but ignoring the pain of his stiff muscles and joints Sam scrambled to the table where his jacket was draped over the chair. He reached into the pocket and pulled out the small cell. After one brief glance at the display telling him it was Bobby, Sam answered in a rough voice, "Yeah Bobby?"

"Sam, you got a TV in front of you?"

Frowning Sam glanced at the television across from the foot of his bed. "Yeah."

"You'd better stop whatever it is you're doing and turn on CNN."

"Uh, yeah sure, just a sec," Sam tried to hide his confusion and did as he was told. There was a well-dressed man reporting on the latest in sports news. Sam couldn't hide his irritation, "OK, I doubt you called to tell me about the game last night."

"Keep watching. The news is on a loop. They'll get to it in a little while. Call me when they do."

"Can you at least tell me what I'm watching for?"

Bobby hesitated, "Sam I would, but I'm not quite sure myself of what I saw on here a few minutes ago."

"What am I looking for?"

"You'll know it when you see it," Bobby replied.

"A little help here Bobby?"

"Sorry Sam, but I don't want to say anything in case I'm wrong." He sounded genuinely apprehensive and apologetic.

So with a resigned sigh Sam agreed and hung up. He watched for a little while until it repeated the loop and showed him nothing of interest. Lifting his hands in frustration he stretched his stiff and aching muscles. He shuffled into the bathroom to take a quick shower before getting back to work, leaving the TV on for noise.

He pulled off his shirt and winced at the sight of the purple bruises on his torso that he got on his last hunt. A nice hot shower was beginning to sound more and more like a great idea. He rubbed his tired eyes and unbuttoned the fly of his jeans and was about to take them off when he heard a woman on the TV saying something that suddenly got his attention.

She was mentioning a John Doe found just outside of Lawrence Kansas suffering from amnesia. The "Lawrence" part mildly caught Sam's interest so he tuned his ear to listen as he continued to undress. It hadn't been on the news loop he saw. It wasn't until the newswoman began to describe the John Doe that Sam became interested enough to stop everything to listen.

"He is described as mid to late twenties, 6'1, 120lbs, with short dark blonde hair, green eyes and he has a pentagram tattoo on his left chest…."

Aside from the weight being too light, the description sounded a lot like… _No, it couldn't be. It's not possible._

Finally he peered around the corner and looked at the TV screen. On one side of the screen the newswoman continued to speak but Sam had no idea what she was saying because on the other side of the screen was a mug shot-like photograph of a wild looking man, haggard and thin, with wide, terrified eyes.

_No, no, no, it can't be, it can't be… _

Sam suddenly felt weak in the knees and he leaned heavily against the bathroom door just to stay standing.

"Dean…" he whispered weakly.

TBC...

**A/N** Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think, good or bad I'd love to hear from you!


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